


Anchor Point

by Westgate (Harkpad)



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Clint's Past Comes Back to Haunt Him, Don't Threaten Phil Coulson, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:32:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anchor Point: Can be any specific point on the body used as a location to anchor the archer's hand at full draw, most often a spot on the face, such as the corner of the mouth. The bow is drawn to that same location every time for consistency.</p>
<p>A routine op turns into a chance for Clint to tear down an old circus demon, but it's harder than he thought, until the man threatens Coulson, then it's easy. </p>
<p>Clint/Coulson if you squint</p>
<p>Warnings: Depictions of past abuse, brief graphic violence</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anchor Point

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Depictions of Child Abuse

**_Anchor Point: Can be any specific point on the body used as a location to anchor the archer's hand at full draw, most often a spot on the face, such as the corner of the mouth. The bow is drawn to that same location every time for consistency._ **

Hawkeye was sitting at the edge of the roof, dangling his feet over the edge, twirling an arrow through his fingers, watching the SHIELD team below begin the cleanup after the explosion. His eyes followed one agent in particular, watching him give orders into his comm unit.

He had turned his own unit off, so he just watched Coulson’s lips move, watched his body language, watched his dark glasses as if he could see the blue eyes behind them. He twirled the arrow and shifted his gaze to the cleanup team, zipping two bodies into a bag, sifting through rubble looking for the one more they needed to find. He watched their hands get dusty, watched them cough into their sleeves, watched them stand up from time to time and wipe the gritty sweat from their cheeks.

_“Hawkeye, you have the shot.”_

_He had it. He had it. He’d been waiting for it and now it was his to take, finally, finally his. He nocked an arrow, drew the bowstring back to his anchor point, the top of his right cheekbone, and held. He held._

_Again: “Hawkeye, you have the shot.”_

_And he was back in the circus tent, in the middle of the dusty ring, and Duquesne’s voice was coming through over the microphone so that everyone could hear it: “Hawkeye, you have the shot!”_

_And later, after the show, the smack of Duquesne’s fist against his anchor point would leave a bruise that would bother him for days regardless of the stage makeup he’d use to cover it up for a performance. That fist would also strike his gut and then his mouth, knocking the wind out of him, leaving him heaving and spitting blood into the dirt because he hit the bull’s-eye half an inch off-center._

_The gunshot that sent a bullet whizzing past his arm, grazing it and drawing blood, startled him and he stumbled back from his vantage point, something he had never, ever done as a sniper for SHIELD. He took a deep breath and stepped back up to the ledge with an arrow, but an explosion rocked the street below and gunfire broke out as the SHIELD team ducked._

_Hawkeye didn’t hold this time, loosing arrow after arrow at the goons who were trying to escape after setting off the explosion to save their boss. He felled all three of them with three arrows in under ten seconds._

Clint stood, too, but he let the sweat run down his own dust-free cheeks without wiping them. The roof had a raised ledge, but not a very wide ledge, and he stepped up onto it, shifting the arrow into his other hand, but continuing to twirl it. He wove it through his fingers as he walked along the ledge, now looking ahead, only ahead. He set one foot in front of the other, twirled the arrow, felt the sweat drip down his cheek, and then he stopped walking and looked back down at the street.

Coulson was searching for him, his hand above his eyes to shade them, as if the dark sunglasses he wore weren’t letting him see well enough to find his target. Clint looked away and started walking the ledge again, one foot in front of the other, arrow weaving between his calloused fingers, feeling Coulson’s gaze bore into his back, knowing the hand was coming down, another command was being spoken.

_Two minutes after the explosion Hawkeye crouched at the edge of the roof, waiting for the order to stand down, when he heard the door to the roof open slowly and The Swordsman stepped out onto the gravel-lined roof, his feet crunching the rock beneath his black leather boots. The man was wearing black jeans and a silky green shirt with a leather jacket._

_His old boss, not much of an archer but enough of one to try and torment Hawkeye,  drew his own arrow, a solid purple arrow with silver fletching, and he smiled at Hawkeye. “You didn’t take the shot when you were told, Little Hawk. Your trainer didn’t make you pay enough for your past mistakes, clearly,” The Swordsman said, his voice smooth, silky, and low. “I’ll make you pay, though, and then I’ll make him pay for his mistake with you.”_

_And he was back in the circus tent, the lights dim and Duquesne’s silky voice berating him again, this time not because he was off target, but because he didn’t make enough of a show of it after, and Clint felt the first blow to his anchor point and something exploded in his chest._

_He did a back flip to get out of the way of Duquesne’s other fist and then slammed his own knee into Duquesne’s groin before slamming his elbow up into Duquesne’s chin, hearing the crunch of bone on bone and seeing Duquesne slip to the ground, clutching at his own face. Clint slammed his fist into the man’s nose, hearing it break, and then he was running, sweeping his own bow and quiver into his hands and slinging it over his shoulder and running, running, running forever away._

_Now he was here. On this roof, on this job. They’d discussed the possibility of Duquesne’s presence. He had even spoken to Coulson about the compromise it might have on his judgment, but he’d assured the agent that he could override it. That he could take the shot, which he’d been craving for a long, long time. But then he couldn’t and now Duquesne was standing in front of him, nocking an arrow specifically made to mock Clint, and threatening Coulson._

_Something exploded in his chest again._

_He felt time slow to a crawl; the air was thick and Clint’s hand reached back carefully and drew an arrow, a very plain, SHIELD-issued arrow, from his very plain, SHIELD-issued quiver and placed it on his bow, his very, very special bow that he’d brought just for the possibility of using it against this man. He drew the bowstring quickly and then time sped up again and Clint released the arrow and it flew, hitting Dusquesne in the throat._

_Duquesne crumpled, eyes wide in surprise and blood streaming down his neck, and the purple arrow clattered into the gravel next to the man’s slack fingers. Clint walked over and picked up the arrow and held it by its silver fletching, flicking the blood off of it and then going to the edge of the roof and sitting, dangling his feet over the side._

He walked the entire edge of the roof, twirling the arrow in his fingers, looking only ahead until he heard the roof door open once again. He could tell by the gentle footfalls that it was Coulson, so he stopped walking and turned, facing outward and standing still, not looking at the agent behind him, looking instead at the charred remains of the car on the street, at the dissipating clean-up team, almost finished with their job for the day.

“I get nervous when you do that on these roofs, you know,” Coulson said, approaching his archer.

“I know.”

“You took the shot eventually, huh?” Coulson asked, his voice steady, always steady. It was steady enough to draw Clint down, so he stepped backward and dropped to the roof, still not facing his handler.

“Yeah. Eventually.” He twirled the purple arrow between his fingers and turned around, showing it to Coulson. “He made it for me. My costume was these colors.” He felt a strangled laugh escape his throat. “Circus performers. Always a flair for the dramatic.”

Coulson grinned and stepped closer. “Like walking the edge of the roof and not answering their comms after a mission.”

Clint nodded and glanced over at the Duquesne. Coulson followed his gaze and Clint said, “He used to fuck with my anchor point.” Clint didn’t know why, but he needed Coulson to know this.

“What?”

“My anchor point on my cheekbone. He used to hit me there on purpose, extra. Cracked it once, even, but I had to go perform anyway, and he knew it.”

“He was a bastard,” Coulson said.

Clint laughed mirthlessly and then looked at Coulson. “He threatened to fuck with my anchor point again today, you know. I might have let him have me until he did that. That’s the way my brain was going. Just let him have me – I screwed up the mission after all, and he always, always punished me for my screw-ups – I must have deserved it.”

Coulson stepped over and leaned into Clint’s shoulder. “No.”

Clint smiled, “Yeah, you’re right, but that’s not where my brain was.” He took a shaky breath and held up the arrow in the sunlight, twirling it. “I was going to let him skewer me with this, but then-” He paused. “Then he threatened you. Said you hadn’t dealt with me right and he’d make you pay for that mistake.”

Clint stepped away and abruptly snapped the arrow in two and hurled it over the edge of the roof. “I wasn’t going to let him fuck with my anchor point any more. So I killed him this time. Like I should have done the first time.” His voice had dropped to a harsh whisper.

Coulson didn’t ask which ‘first time’ he was referring to. Clint didn’t think it mattered anymore.

 


End file.
